


Breaks The Night

by seki



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Ignoct if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24310642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seki/pseuds/seki
Summary: Regalia is one of the most famous bands in Eos, but once they get off-stage their workreallystarts.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Breaks The Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Regalia Mixtape FFXV zine!

"And with that, we wish you: good night!"

It's the final cue of the evening, as the audience hushes expectantly. Ignis turns a quarter-circle, mirroring Gladio. He waits as the spotlights whirl around like a million unsettled fireflies. To his right, he sees Prompto idly spin a drumstick in one hand, and counts internally.

One.

Two.

Gladio begins the soft bassline, precisely as Noctis leans into the microphone and sings, " _And now it's time--_ "

It's Regalia's gentlest song, Ignis thinks, and simplest too. Oh, the album arrangement swathed it in strings, lush and rich, and it's beautiful that way, truly a triumph of studio production. But for live performances they play it as it was first conceived in a dressing room, adding only the lightest of instrumentation to the lullaby that Gladio had sung to his sister as a child. Bass that whispers, the softest of cymbals and snares, Ignis letting his guitar chime rather than ring as he harmonises with Noctis's vocals.

The song doesn't need more than that, not live. Noctis's voice can hold the entire audience alone, and Ignis is sure that Noctis is all the audience are seeing onstage now, eyes closed and leaning up into the microphone as if it's a lover slightly too tall for him to kiss.

They were scolded, the first few times they tried this. Ending a concert with a lullaby instead of a vast showy spectacle is a risk. It took glowing reviews from serious critics in addition to thrilled commentary on social media to convince managers to agree that the risk had paid off.

Sometimes they end with one of the big hits, like _Ravatogh_. Sometimes they end with something quirky, a b-side like Prompto's little _Chocobo Rap_ or Ignis's own _Recipe For Success_.

Ignis thinks, though, that his favourite concerts end like this, with a hushed and reverent audience. He can play this melody, fade into the background and allow Noctis's voice to wash over him. No need to dance, to project a _personality_ , to perform for the benefit of the fans.

It's a chance to breathe and center oneself, in case they're needed afterwards.

Noctis opens his eyes for the final words, a drawn-out, sweet ' _good-night'_ that he smiles through and which the audience murmurs along with.

There's a brief, microsecond silence, and then the audience erupts in applause and cheers.

"That's it," Noctis says, and he flashes the audience a grin. "You've been amazing, Regalians."

"We love you!" Prompto chirps, from behind Ignis, to a chorus of squealing delight. "Come see us again soon! Regalia forever!"

Gladio grabs his microphone stand, pulls it towards him, dragging it the usual four inches. "Yeah, thanks, it's been great. You had a good time, Iggy?"

"I did," Ignis says, into his own microphone. "Marvellous."

There's another swell of cheers, which Ignis thinks is absurd. These lines are all scripted, and yet the audience loves them.

"Goodnight!" Noctis says again, and waves, and with that they're all free to exit the stage, as long as they wave and smile and act reluctant to go.

They get into the wings and Ignis's heart sinks. Cor is there, and he seems even more impatient than usual, which means _trouble_. 

Noctis must be freed from his head mic and transmitter as fast as possible, which means that Ignis is the one that un-wires him, passing everything to a waiting technician. That done, they all run down the stairs, into the waiting van, and grab onto handholds in anticipation of the way the van will set off almost before the doors close.

Inside, the four of them fall into a well-practised routine as easily as any onstage dance sequence; changing their clothing, removing stage makeup, shedding glitter and sequins in favour of unrelieved black. A uniform, of sorts.

"Where we going?" Gladio calls, towards the front of the van. "Hunters call an emergency?"

"Daemons," Cor says, over his shoulder, from the passenger seat. "They're coming out earlier and earlier. Gonna have to finish your gigs sooner at this rate."

"You tell that to the fans."

"Don't tempt me." Cor turns, this time, glares into the rear of the van. "You know if it were up to me, you guys wouldn't perform at all."

They all lower their heads at that; it's an old argument, and not worth re-hashing. Ignis turns his attention to the necessary checks. No hints of colour in the clothing, no glitter, no sparkle. It's not what Ignis would prefer, but experience trumps everything else.

Instruments hang on the driver's side wall, lovingly racked. These ones are battered and well-worn, but as well-cared-for as the instruments Regalia use on stage. Ignis takes down his acoustic guitar. He bought it when he was sixteen, young, foolish and drunk on music. It's been broken many times, and each time lovingly rebuilt, refretted, restrung. He kneels and strums it, as if checking the tuning, though he knows he needn't worry. Talcott's never let them down yet.

"You ready?"

They all nod.

"Good. Mission tonight is at a farm. Daemons around their perimeter. One grade H, that's your target."

Gladio gets his acoustic bass down. He grumbles, sometimes, and never loudly, that he hates it, wishes it had the amplification of an electric. But they've tried amps for these forays, and it's just not practical; they need to be able to move fluidly and without being too burdened. And besides, Ignis thinks, Gladio has little to complain of, next to Prompto with his tenor drum - a fine percussive instrument, but far less expressive than what's afforded to him usually.

The van turns onto a side-road, judging from the way the ground becomes more uneven, and then stops. Ignis takes a breath, and then they're out.

They follow behind Cor, like ducklings after their mother. Noctis drops back, reaches for Ignis's hand for a reassuring squeeze. Ignis grasps it, grateful. On stage, in public, they all playact at attraction to one another, flirting and smiling and touching _just_ enough to tease at something more. It feels cheap to Ignis, but he can't deny that the fans love it, and so he plays along too. But there's honest affection between them -- between all of them -- and that's comforting. If Noctis can touch him like this, their feelings for each other wouldn't fade away if they stopped being a band. It's real.

Cor gets to the corner of a building and beckons them all closer. They obey, huddling in for instructions.

"It's some kind of naga," Cor says. "Not one I've seen before. Huge. Lots of arms, weapons in each."

Too familiar-sounding for comfort. Ignis finds Noctis's hand again, tightens his grip. "Purple stripes on the tail?"

"Yes." Cor gives Ignis a curious look, even as Gladio leans in to rest a hand on Noctis's shoulder. "...you know it?"

Noctis nods. "Yeah. I know her. Marilith."

They all know that name, Ignis thinks, as Prompto belatedly catches on and grabs Noctis's other hand in sympathy. Noctis had told them, that one night when they were trapped in their tour coach outside Hammerhead, with the wind howling. They'd seen the scar on his back, had shivered at the description of the daemon, had offered what comfort Noctis would accept from each of them after hearing of the death of those with him.

"Now," Cor says, "she's injured; we had The Oracle here, earlier, close-ranging it, and between them they had that snake held long enough for two of my men to bring her limb count to five. She's loose now, and wary of the men, so we've got her surrounded but not pinned, taking occasional swipes at her and trying to avoid her swords."

That's useful to know. Lunafreya from The Oracle has a great voice, a clear high soprano, but it's less powerful than Noctis's voice. Even with Ravus's masterful synths for backup they'd have been operating at a disadvantage compared to Regalia. It bode well. "Is it just us, here, now?"

"There are soloists on the way. No one close."

That's a shame; pulling in another musician or vocalist can pay off well, and with a monster like Marilith they might well need some back-up.

Cor leans out around the side of the building again. "Right. She's becoming more alert. Get as close as you can."

"I say we use _Howl_ ," Noct says, firmly. "Everyone cool with that?"

It's a darkly apropos song, a song written by Noctis about the very experience of hunting like this, about being hunted, about love and obsession. They don't have a pianist, but Ignis fingers the appropriate chords, silently, and nods his readiness, even as Prompto exhales hard in agreement and Gladio grins widely.

It's a cloudy night. They move, as fast as they can, scattering to what they've found effective in terms of layout; Ignis and Gladio flanking the daemon, Prompto hanging back, Noctis as far forward as he dares. Ignis hates that Noctis has to be in danger -- they all do -- but the closer the vocals, the more effective they are.

Marilith is facing away, looming over two of the hunters. The coils of her tail are looped behind her. The closer they get, the more vast she seems, until Ignis's heart feels as if it's in his mouth.

This _monster_ is immense. Grade H? He's swear this is bigger than that. Her tail seems bigger than a man is tall. Her head is on a level with the top of the nearby grain silos. 

And Noctis had been a child, that first encounter. It's a miracle he survived at all.

Ignis gathers himself, plucks the opening notes to cue the others, and Prompto comes in with pulsing beats a bar later.

" _If you could only see,_ " Noctis begins, feral-sounding, " _the beast you made of me--_ "

Marilith turns, immediately, so her entire torso faces them. Front-on, she's even more alarming. Sharp weapons clutched in all five remaining arms, smoky haze in place of the one missing shoulder, and she _screams_ at them.

Noctis keeps singing over that; they all know this song well enough to not falter, and they all know Noctis's voice should keep them safe. " _You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl,"_ Noctis sings, and on cue, the moon comes out from behind a cloud, illuminating the scene clearly as the monster rears up in front of them. 

Ignis keeps his eyes on Noctis.

" _My fingers claw your skin, try to tear my way in,_ " and Ignis readies himself for the dissonant chords necessary, as Noctis repeats, " _you are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl_." 

His voice rises into the wail of the last word, sung over and over, his eyes closed and his jaw defiant, and he sounds so powerful, so confident, that Ignis smiles. Nobody else in the world sings like Noctis.

The hunters are circling behind.

Noctis raises his arms.

" _Now there's no holding back, I'm making an attack,_ " Noctis sings, and the first hunter carves a gash into those huge coils of tail just as Ignis turns to look. Marilith sways, but doesn't spin, only raises one sword, blinking as if confused. It's working.

Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, Ignis thinks, the saying so old it predates known authorship, and yet every time Ignis finds himself astonished by the truth of it. Daemons respond to music as if it makes them want to sleep. It doesn't work for every musician, nor even -- according to Cor -- with many bands. But something about Noctis's voice, especially in combination with their support, works so well it feels like magic.

Perhaps, he thinks, it is.

" _My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out,"_ Noctis continues, his voice dropping low and intense. There are more hunters now, creeping up closer behind Marilith.

She, meanwhile, is focused entirely on Noctis, eyes hooded, swaying, raising and lowering her arms. It's almost a slurred version of a dance, out of tempo.

_"And howl, howl, howl, howl!"_

Each syllable is treated as a signal. Blades come down. 

They hit.

Marilith rears up at the last slash, her eyes wide with pain, and as she sways forward again she swipes a blade at Noctis.

Ignis doesn't even register himself moving. And yet, he's somehow there in time. He pushes Noctis out of the way, barely dodges the blade, his fingers still desperately picking out that shrill accompaniment. He sees Gladio move in, catch Noctis with one hand, steady him, nudge him backwards. They barely miss a beat, between them, as Ignis retreats back to a safer distance.

" _Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers,"_ and Noctis's voice is a little wobbly, but then strengthens again into the higher notes, _"starts so soft and sweet, and turns them to hunters."_

More blades, hunters moving swiftly, taking slices out of Marilith's torso. Leaps that are higher than Ignis would consider feasible. Black ichor being spilled, as he and the others all echo Noctis's ' _hunters, hunters'._

Marilith is slow now, eyes still on Noctis, limbs slack, barely aware of the injuries being done to her.

" _The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress,_ " Noctis continues, as Ignis watches the distinctly impure flesh of this daemon come apart in front of him. Ignis focuses; fingers gentle now on the strings, Noctis's voice flooding over all of them, Prompto's frantic drumbeats, Gladio's steady bassline. " _Until I wrap myself inside your arms, I cannot rest._ "

Attack after attack, relentless like the drums and the bass.

"-- _the saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound--_ "

One of the hunters slices upwards, at the left side of the monster's torso, leaving a huge gash up her side and across her stomach.

_"I hunt for you with bloodied feet--."_

Marilith droops forward, eyes gone dull.

Cor pushes past Ignis, pulling his katana from its sheath, his gaze fixed on her throat.

" _-across the hallowed--"_

Another hunter makes an attack which carves an arm off; it fizzes into black smoke.

Noctis's voice soars, "-- _gro-ow-ow-und--_ "

Another slash, black blood springing from the wound on her coils at the back.

" _-and how-owow-ow--_ "

Cor strikes.

"-- _howl_."

They all stop at once, a beat ahead of Noctis, who stretches the last syllable out, unrehearsed but synchronised, as the final strike lands; Marilith, her head thrown back in rage and pain, dissolving before them into black dust and ichor. It takes a few moments, with the afterimages of her shape visible in the dust, hanging there as if ready to coagulate into a daemon again.

And then it's gone.

Ignis takes a deep breath. The air feels cleaner, fresher.

A faint, exhausted noise sounds behind him.

Ignis turns, just in time to see Noctis collapse. Prompto gets there first, drum and sticks discarded as he _just_ manages to catch Noctis before he hits the floor. Gladio's next to him, bass guitar slung upside down on his back, and Ignis is only a second behind him.

"I'm fine," Noctis slurs, from Prompto's arms. "Fine. Just, my legs are a bit weird right now."

"He's in shock," Cor opines, from behind Ignis.

Ignis turns. "Of course he is. He was nearly killed, _again_."

"It's a risk we have to take."

"No, it isn't. I don't want him in danger like that again," Ignis says, and he can almost _feel_ Gladio rising to his feet, coming to stand behind him in silent agreement. "Next time, we keep him back. Far back. Give him a megaphone, if you want. I don't care."

Cor looks at Ignis, then glances at Gladio, and then finally looks over at Noctis on the floor. "Understood," he says, softly.

"Good," Gladio says, gruffly, from behind Ignis.

"With any luck, it'll be a long time before you have to face anything like that again."

Ignis turns away, before he says something he might regret. 

Prompto is cradling Noctis, rocking him back and forth in a gentle rhythm, humming something -- a song, Ignis supposes, though he can't hear it well enough to place it. Gladio kneels again, says something to Prompto, then glances at Ignis.

"The van," Ignis says, and he kneels too. "On three. One. Two--"

They lift Noctis together, and then settle him so he lies bridal-style in Gladio's arms. Gladio jabs his jaw in the direction of the drum, and Prompto scurries to fetch it.

Noctis is quite recovered by the time they get to the van, enough to be complaining about the indignity of being carried. He puts up with being wrapped up in blankets and discarded sequined jackets, however, and the way he leans against Ignis as the van engine starts up suggests that he's not _quite_ as fine as he's declaring.

Ignis puts an arm around him, stares past him at the dark world outside.

Daemons. More and more of them every week. They can't stop fighting, for all his veiled threat to Cor. They just can't.

There must be some _cause_ to this increase in activity, some basis that they can investigate. And once they find it, they can defeat it.

Noctis shifts, rests his head on Ignis's shoulder. "We need to fix this all," he mumbles. "Make the daemons stop. We just need to know how."

"You think we should do this full-time?"

"Yeah." Noctis twists a bit, so he's looking up at Ignis. "You don't?"

Prompto and Gladio are ostensibly fixing the strap on Prompto's drum, but Ignis knows they're listening in. "I'm not sure. Opinions?"

Gladio shrugs. "Makes sense to me."

"We gotta," Prompto mumbles, not looking up. "Noct's right."

Ignis tightens his arm around Noctis. Perhaps they can learn some self-defense, or co-ordinate with the hunters more efficiently to keep Noctis safe. Nobody will let anyone damage him, not on Ignis's watch.

"Very well," he says. "Let's go save the world."

**Author's Note:**

> The song Noctis sings is Florence and The Machine's _Howl_!


End file.
